


Possession

by EveningStarcatcher



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Branding, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Torture, depictions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23176909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveningStarcatcher/pseuds/EveningStarcatcher
Summary: Based on Whiteley Foster's incredibleart.Crowley has been dragged to Hell for some questioning and a little reminder...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 135
Collections: My Lot Don't Send Rude Notes





	Possession

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).



_If my people hear I rescued an angel, I’ll be the one in trouble._

_And my lot do not send rude notes!_

The words echoed in Crowley’s head, pounding and rattling around, all else gone, emptied, driven away.

Only those words.

Those words and pain.

His vision swam, outlined by the long red hair hanging down around his pale face. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, shuddering through his aching body.

He pulled weakly against the restraints that bit into his wrists, blood dripping down his hands. The chair he was in was rough, splintering and stabbing through his clothes, pressing into his skin with every movement he made.

He didn’t know how long he had been there. He was in the dark, no light except for the small fire across the room, flickering and glistening off of a tray of metal tools that he had already become very familiar with.

He could feel each bruise, scratch, and laceration as if acid was pouring over them. His shirt and coat had been cut, ripped away from the skin of his left shoulder and chest to provide a blank page, ready and waiting to be tortured. And the artist had taken full advantage - spattering his canvas with shades of red, brown, and purple, streaking, swirling, and smudged across his neck, shoulder, and chest.

“I’ll ask you again, _Crawly_ ,” a voice sneered. “What were you doing with the angel?”

“Nothing!” Crowley’s voice came out rough, uneven, raw from screaming. “I didn’t know he was there. I was just there for the executions.”

Hastur stepped forward. “I don’t believe you.”

“Why would I lie?”

“We’re demons, it’s what we do.” Hastur reminded him, dragging his filthy fingers over a cut, reopening it, crimson blood spilling over blue and purple skin. He circled his victim slowly, admiring his work.

“I’m not lying,” Crowley hissed in pain.

“Can’t be sure of that, now can we?” Hastur purred into Crowley’s ear, leaning close and pressing his weight against his restrained hands, pulling another yelp from his ruined throat.

“You can,” Crowley whispered as loudly as he could manage. “I don’t have any reason to lie to you. Besides, I heard the boss was rather pleased with what I’ve done in France. Do they know that I’m here?”

“They don’t need to know. Not yet. Once I get the truth I’m sure I’ll be getting a promotion.” Hastur crossed back to the fire on the opposite side of the small room and retrieved something from it. 

He turned back to Crowley, a sickening grin across his sallow face, illuminated by the red-hot glow of a branding iron held aloft in one spotted hand. The brand was made of two parallel lines, the bottom one longer than the top, set above an oval curled in on itself, all speared by a vertical prong.

Hastur cackled and stepped towards Crowley, the red heat from the iron reflected in his dark, hateful eyes.

“You sure?” Crowley’s heart was racing, his brain fighting to find words. “They might not be so happy to hear that you’ve kidnapped and tortured one of hell’s best agents.”

“One of hell’s best agents? Is that what you think?” Hastur barked out a short laugh.

“I’ve got the commendations to prove it.” Crowley was desperate, staring wide-eyed at the brand, his pupils slitted.

“Maybe so, but I still don’t trust you.” Hastur’s black eyes narrowed, grimacing down at him.

“F’course not. We’re demons. We don’t trussssst anyone,” Crowley hissed between clenched teeth as he felt the heat from the iron closing in on him, prickling at the skin of his exposed shoulder.

“If you were there for the execution, why were you eating with the angel?” Hastur leaned over him, grabbing a fistful of Crowley’s hair and wrenching his head back, revealing his neck, leaving him even more vulnerable, unable to twist away from the hellfire-heated metal. “Choose your words carefully.

“T-temptation!” Crowley choked on the word, disgusted with himself for even saying it.

“Tempting an angel?” Hastur cackled, pressing a finger into a bruise on Crowley’s neck, the branding iron brushing his skin, pulling a cry from him.

“Ye-yes. Thought it might be f-fun.” Crowley tried to pull away from Hastur’s hold, but was held firm, his finger still pressing into the bruise, shifting slowly from side to side, prolonging the pain. Crowley bit his lip to hold back a whimper.

“And did you? Did you, the great _Crawly_ , tempt the angel?” Hastur leaned down, nose-to-nose, staring into yellow eyes.

"Not yet. Soon,” he croaked out, setting his jaw in a look of defiance.

“It would be a rather big accomplishment,” Hastur released his hold and stepped away, letting the brand fall and sizzle against the floor. “Perhaps I should give it a try.”

“Sure, go find yourself an angel. You’ll see how hard it is to tempt them.” Crowley sighed and slumped down into the chair, grateful for the reprieve. 

“Oh no. I didn’t mean that. I meant that I’m going to try to tempt _your_ angel.”

“NO!” Crowley cried, straightening up, his hair flying back, his jaw clenched.

“Why not?” Hastur crossed back to the fire, placing the brand into it once again. He glanced over his shoulder. “Protecting him?”

“No, no.” Crowley steadied himself, grimacing. “He’s mine, Hastur. If you want to tempt an angel, find your own. I’ve already started on this one. S’really the only way to be sure who’s better at the job.” He fell back on the old trick of competition. Most demons were powerless to say no to a challenge.

“Hmm,” Hastur plucked the branding iron from the fire, scattering sparks along the cold floor, face calm and thoughtful. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should find my own angel. But,” his expression darkened with a sickening glee, “I don’t think anyone in Hell would object to giving you a small reminder of where you come from.” He crossed the room in four strides, iron held out like a sword ready for battle. “We are the fallen, Crawly, never forget that.”

“It’s _Crow_ ley,” he wheezed.

In response, Hastur thrust the brand against Crowley’s skin. 

He screamed.

Hastur held it in place until it turned cool, pulled it away sharply, then walked across the room. He unceremoniously tossed the brand into the fire and moved to the door.

“You’re free to go.”

The door closed behind him and the restraints fell from Crowley’s wrists. He fell forward, onto the cold floor and shivered, taking a series of long, deep breaths. He focused on the feel of the cool, solid stone beneath his hands, rough and sturdy, pushing the throbbing pain to the background of his thoughts.

He pulled himself up, forcing himself to his feet, and tested his feet. They worked well enough, albeit slowly. He pulled the door open and began the slow ascent to earth.

He stumbled out of Hell, bleeding and broken. He needed to sleep. He needed to sleep for a hundred years. And after that, he’d make a plan. He wouldn’t let himself fall prey to Hell again. He needed insurance.

  
By the time Crowley woke from his nap the raw skin of the brand had faded and his bruises and cuts had healed. There were no scars on his wrists or anywhere except the symbol on his shoulder, a constant reminder of the worst parts of himself.

He covered it, snapping himself into the appropriate clothes for the year, and willed himself to forget.

  
  
  
  


“How did this happen?” Aziraphale traced his fingers over the raised skin of the brand, featherlight, a small frown on his lips.

“Hell. After the Bastille.” Crowley stated, eyes glazing over. No use in hiding it and he was never good at lying to his angel. Better just to get it over with.

They were sitting in the garden behind their cottage. It was a beautiful summer day, blue sky, warm sun, and gentle breeze. Crowley had been working in the garden and had stripped down to a tank top and shorts. They were sitting on the patio, enjoying lemonade and pastries.

Crowley shifted his shirt, covering the mark, but it was too late. It had already caught Aziraphale’s attention.

“After - but we had crepes!” Aziraphale pulled his fingers away.

“Yeah. After that.”

“How?” Aziraphale’s voice was so soft, tender, giving Crowley every chance to say no, to avoid this sudden change in conversation.

“Hastur found me. Had seen us together. Dragged me down to Hell and tortured me. Wanted to remind me who I was working for.” His voice was small, distant. “Threatened to go after you.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale breathed, eyebrows pulling together in regret and concern. “But he didn’t.”

“I made sure of that.” Crowley looked down.

“You let him torture you so he wouldn’t come after me?” The angel was breathless.

“I wasn’t going to let him touch you with that hellfire brand. I knew I’d survive, knew you wouldn’t, so….” He trailed off, hands in fists against his knees.

Aziraphale reached over, placing a hand over one of Crowley’s. The demon released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“That’s why you wanted the Holy Water.” It was a statement and a question all in one. Aziraphale’s blue eyes were stormy, full of regret. 

Crowley nodded.

“I wish you’d told me.” He slipped his hand underneath Crowley’s and gently forced his hand open, then entwined their fingers.

“Doesn’t matter now,” Crowley shrugged.

“Oh, but, darling, I was so cruel to you.” His eyes were wide, pleading for forgiveness that had been given long ago.

“You were being careful, safe.” Crowley attempted a smile, but the angel frowned.

“That’s no excuse,” Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped, his eyes closing, pressing back the sharp burn of tears that threatened to spill.

“Hey, it’s okay, angel.” Crowley cupped his cheek and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “It’s in the past. It’s over. We made it.”

“We did,” Aziraphale sighed into Crowley’s touch, a relieved smile spreading over his face. “But, there’s something I’d like to do, if you’ll allow me.”

He shifted back, sitting up straight. He met Crowley’s gaze, waiting for consent, which was granted with a small nod.

“This may hurt,” he smiled apologetically, shifted Crowley’s shirt, and pressed the palm of his hand against the hell brand. A sharp pain burned against his skin for a brief moment, followed by a soothing, prickling sensation. Aziraphale leaned forward, removed his hand, and pressed a kiss to Crowley’s skin. “What do you think?”

Where the brand had been was something new. Replacing the distinct welts of Hell’s claim over him were soft strokes of ink, outlining and winding into something beautiful.

An apple, the shape closely resembling a heart, surrounded by the soft petals of apple blossom flowers. Black standing against his light skin in delicate curves, claiming him in love.

“The symbolism of the apple should be quite apparent,” Aziraphale chuckled. “Our first meeting. And the blooms are meant to represent hope. A hope for humanity, for us, for our side.”

“Angel,” Crowley was lost for words, overflowing with love. He ran his long fingers over the lines reverently as Aziraphale watched him. The awful, painful memories of that time in Hell, his nap, their fight about Holy Water, melted away as he met the angel’s eyes.

He surged forward and kissed Aziraphale, fisting his hands in the angel’s collar, melting against his soft lips, capturing a soft gasp with a gentle nip at his bottom lip.

“It’s incredible,” he said, pulling Aziraphale closer to him, settling the head of soft, pale curls against his new tattoo. “I love you, you know.”

“Oh, darling, I do.”


End file.
